


it all boils down to this

by BlackBlood1872



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Wrinkle in Time References, Fluff, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), It's Barely Even There, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Canon, because they're idiots, that was the whole origin of this fic, they just don't KNOW THAT, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 21:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: Sometimes you just have to warp space to instantly teleport to your best friend's side 'cause he sounds a little down and that's not gay at all, honestly





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> [Original post](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/187852537390)  
Title from Lauren Aquilina's [Fools](https://youtu.be/UolKQWoWyQY)

Barely a second after he hangs up, a sound that is not a sound, like a still breeze, displaces the air beside him. Crowley startles, tripping around his ornate chair, only staying upright by clinging to one of the spires on the top. “Angel! Whuh—when—how did you get here?”

“I tessered,” he says. His brow scrunches over searching eyes, scanning Crowley and the empty flat. “You sounded troubled.”

“So you _wrinkled space_ to get here?”

“Of course.”

They stare at each other for a few moments and then Crowley slumps against the chair with a long sigh. “I’m fine, angel,” he says quietly. “Just… worrying about things. Nothing you can do anything about.”

Aziraphale continues to frown at him, but it shifts away from battle-ready concern to somber worry. “Still. There must be something I can do to help.”

“Not really.” Not unless he has a centuries old secret he wants to confess that just so happens to match Crowley's own millennia old one. Which is highly unlikely. Definitely improbable. (_Impossible_, Crowley wants to think, but as always, his heart shies away from it. He’s always been soft, deep down.)

“Well. I’m here, in any case. Might as well make the most of it,” the angel offers cheerfully. “Can I tempt you to some wine?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh, ducking his head to hide the fond curl of his lips. “That's my job, angel,” he chides. He pushes away from the chair and saunters across the room, grandiosely waving an arm at the open door to the living room. “After you.”

Aziraphale gives him a tiny smile as he passes, somehow managing to light his whole face with it, eyes sparkling as he looks first at Crowley, then the floor, then back again. The demon has seen that quick motion play out so many times during countless encounters, and it always manages to kindle a spark of warmth within his chest. Thank _Someone_ for his glasses, because he’s sure every sappy feeling he’s ever felt is visible in his eyes right now, and he definitely doesn’t want Aziraphale to see that.


	2. Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post](https://blackblood1872.tumblr.com/post/187894505965)

The problem with having the ability to sense love is that Aziraphale can feel it and knows where it originates, but he never knows the _destination_. Where is the love aimed? Who or what has caused someone to love so voraciously? That knowledge comes from context cues and Aziraphale has always been awful at figuring those out. Most times he doesn’t even try, simply basking in the feeling as if it were a patch of sunlight.

So it is that he’s aware that Crowley is capable of great love, practically exudes it at times, but he has never quite figured out the reason _why_. There is always a faint sense of love about him, a baseline that Aziraphale intimately knows the flavour of, and more often than not, it swirls into fondness as their meetings drag on. He feels like this near every time they meet, even when the demon is cross with him, and so Aziraphale has come to recognise that love as Crowley’s base state of being. It is odd, for a demon, but Crowley has always been different from the other Fallen.

(He wondered exactly once if what Crowley loved was Aziraphale himself. But then he remembered everything about himself, all of his indulgences and faults, and shook his head. “Of course not,” he said out loud, and pushed the possibility from his mind.)

Aziraphale makes his way to Crowley’s rather spartan living room, decorated as minimally and coldly as the rest of his flat. Aziraphale frowns at the chair sat next to the couch, and while it doesn’t change in appearance, it is much more comfortable when he settles in. Crowley detours to a cabinet, obtaining the wine and glasses, and then slings himself onto the couch without regard to how the typical human spine works. Aziraphale watches him wriggle into just the right position with a soft flare of fondness, and dips his gaze to the offered wine glass in an attempt to conceal it.

If Crowley notices any love pointed his way, he doesn’t comment on it.

They revive well-worn topics as they drink, add new thoughts to old conversations, flow between them with the ease of immortal beings with inhumanly precise memories. One bottle becomes two, then three, and somehow Crowley ends up upside down on the couch, one leg thrown over an arm, the other over the back, and he gestures madly with a glass that has been persuaded to ignore the usual laws of gravity.

Aziraphale sinks further into his chair and cradles his wine in both hands, watching his friend with eyes only half open, completely unable to suppress the adoration shining out of his very pores. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write about tessering and suddenly there was all this gay pining send help


End file.
